


Take Me Back to the Start

by TroubleIWant



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, POV Stiles, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-06-20
Packaged: 2018-02-05 10:40:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1815556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TroubleIWant/pseuds/TroubleIWant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hey, buddy,” Stiles says, tone placating. “What’s the last thing you remember?”</p>
<p>“I dunno,” Derek says, looking surprised at his own voice. He squints in concentration and then hazards, “School?”</p>
<p>“Interesting,” Deaton says faintly.</p>
<p>Stiles feels something like panic settle into his stomach. “Wait then...do you remember how old you are?”</p>
<p>Derek looks at him like he’s an idiot, which makes everything seem normal for a moment. “Fifteen,” he answers, with a little questioning lilt implying ‘duh.’</p>
<p>So, actually the opposite of normal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take Me Back to the Start

**Author's Note:**

> Semi-inspired by Tyler Hoechlin's comment that Derek's autobiography would be called "When Does It Get Better?"
> 
> Beta'd generously by Walkingfelony -- any remaining errors are all mine!

 

**

“He’ll be fine,” Deaton assures them, gently lifting one of Derek’s eyelids to check his pupil with a flashlight.

“Darn,” Stiles deadpans. The vet-cum-Druid knows his stuff, but to Stiles’ eyes the patient looks distinctly not-fine. “Got my hopes up he was finally out of our hair.”

Scott rolls his eyes. “Please, when he got hit with that spell you looked like you were going to hurl.” He’s still amped up on the fear of almost losing someone else, Stiles guesses, because usually he picks up better on the whole I’m-deflecting-with-humor routine.

“Hurl with joy, maybe,” he mutters.

“You screamed his _name_.” Scott looks at him pointedly. “I think my ears are still ringing.”

Stiles kicks the corner of the table irritably because, okay, maybe there had been a little screaming. But if Derek gets to just storm into the witches lair and trigger some crazy defensive spell that could just as easily have been fatal, then Stiles gets to panic, okay? They’re friends now. Basically. And friends don’t let friends wantonly martyr themselves in some weird attempt to prove their worth to the true alpha.

Deaton looks between them, one eyebrow arched as if to say, ‘are you done?’ and, satisfied, he continues, “Please note the future tense, though. I believe this was an amnesia spell. When he wakes up, he could be missing some of his memories – years, maybe.” 

“Years?” Stiles says, because hooray, he always wanted to get in a few more afternoons with the Derek of two years ago whose idea of good communication was lurking in his room at inappropriate hours and intimidating him with his two inch height advantage. Jeez, at least now they can be civil with one another. “For how long?”

“Hard to say,” Deaton muses, looking back at Derek’s unconscious body with something like sympathy. “Maybe a day. Could be as long as three. It’s not a very powerful spell, it will undo itself soon enough.”

“Well, that’s just awesome,” Stiles says. “What do we tell him when he wakes up? Scott?”

“Better decide quickly,” Deaton says, as Derek’s eyes flutter open.

“Oww.” He moans, more peevish than pained. He presses one hand to his head and uses the other to push himself up into a sitting position. “What _happened_?”

He does a double-take at the sound of his own voice and then seems to realize there are other people in the room. He looks curiously at Scott and Stiles, absolutely no flicker of recognition in his eyes. Which, yeah, that’s just peachy.

“Hey, buddy,” Stiles says, tone placating. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

“I dunno,” Derek says, again looking distressed at his own voice, coughing experimentally and touching his fingers to his throat. He squints in concentration and then hazards, “School?” 

“Interesting,” Deaton says faintly.

Stiles feels something like panic settle into his stomach. “Wait then...do you remember how old you are?”

Derek looks at him like he’s an idiot, which makes everything seem normal for a moment. “Fifteen,” he answers, with a little questioning lilt implying ‘duh.’

So, actually the opposite of normal. Stiles turns speechlessly to Scott, hands thrown out in dismay. Wrapping his head around a practically pre-teen Derek Hale? No can do. This one is all on the alpha, thanks.

“Derek,” Scott says, “you’re actually…uh, older than fifteen. By a lot.” He pauses, shooting Stiles a helpless glance. “You got hit with an amnesia spell. Obviously, you don’t remember, but Stiles and I are your friends. We’re going to help you get through this.”

“Oh,” Derek says. “Okay?” One thing Stiles can say about fifteen-year-old Derek is that he’s way more trusting than older-by-a-lot Derek, which is incredibly helpful in this particular situation. Maybe when you grow up as a werewolf, amnesia spells are one of many crazy things that inhabit the realm of the possible.

“I’m Scott, and this is Dr. Deaton. He says that this will wear off soon, so in a few days you’re gonna get your memories back, and everything will make sense. But until then you just gotta work with us, okay?” Scott deploys his ‘trust me, I’m basically a puppy’ eyes to good effect.

“Sure,” Derek says, agreeably, and then makes a circle gesture at his face. “Can I, uh, see?” 

Deaton points at a large mirror towards the door, and Derek hops off the table. Stiles stares. He even moves differently now – gangly almost.

“Wahey!” he says, delighted, and turns back to Stiles and Scott to point at his reflection. “I’m hot!” 

Which, okay. Adorable and Derek Hale are not two things Stiles thought would ever go naturally together, but he was apparently wrong. Totally, completely wrong. He really wishes he had thought to get that “wahey” on video. You know, just for blackmail material.

Derek is rubbing his beard-scruff thing with an incredibly self-satisfied expression on his face. “Peter always said it’d come in patchy, but who’s laughing now? It’s _magnificent_.”

“Oh, Peter’s my uncle – well, sort of,” Derek explains. “He’s like, closer to my age than my mom’s. So sort of more like my cousin, or brother?” 

“Right,” Stiles says. When Derek had torn Peter’s throat open he’d kind of imagined them as _distantly_ related. ‘Mom’s-brother-I-see-on-Easter’ kind of deal. It had been less awful that way.

“Oh, sorry. You already know Peter, then?” Derek says.

“Sort of,” Scott replies with an anemic smile.

Derek suddenly pauses in his preening and shoots a hooded glance at Scott. “Uh, hey, is Paige O’Malley is around? Do you know her?” He runs a hand down his own well-muscled arm with a hopeful expression.

Scott’s face falls. “Derek, actually she’s—”

“Moved away,” Stiles interrupts. “College.”

“Oh,” Derek says, crestfallen.

Stiles glares at Scott while Derek’s not paying attention. What exactly is he trying to do here? Telling Derek his first love’s dead just because it’s true?

“So, can I go home, now? Until I remember everything?”

Stiles’ glare turns into something more panicky, reflected in Scott’s peaked expression. The fire – of course he doesn’t know. How could they have not seen this one coming? They don’t have a plan for this. They definitely should have had a plan. “Uh,” he says.

“Well,” Scott supplies.

“It’s contagious.” Stiles sputters out. Derek looks at him, confused; Scott looks at him too, closer to appalled. “Yeah, it’s… a contagious memory loss spell. Brutal.”

Derek’s eyes narrow in confusion and he waves a hand in their general direction. “So, you three are immune?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, relieved. “Yes, we’re immune. But your family would… yeah, they’d catch it. So.”

“Why,” Derek demands, for the first time seeming like he might be having second thoughts about trusting these strangers.

“It only affects werewolves,” Stiles says, waving his hand obi-wan style. Out of Derek’s line of sight, Deaton rolls his eyes.

“He’s a werewolf,” Derek argues, gesturing at Scott.

“Right, so we need to get him out of here,” Stile says, taking Scott by the elbow. “I’ll be right back.”

 

**

As soon as they’re in the hall, Scott finds his tongue. “What are you doing? We can’t just lie to him about this!”

“What are _you_ doing,” Stiles snaps back, then ramps it back down to an angry whisper. “You’re just going to break it gently that everyone he loves is dead? There’s no point in making him miserable! Deaton said this was for three days, not forever; he’s going to remember on his own.”

Scott groans, but doesn’t exactly argue. “He’s going to find out.”

“He won’t.”

“No, I mean he’s a _werewolf_. He’ll know you’re lying.”

“What was all that practice last summer with hiding my emotions for, if not for something like this?”

Scott flicks Stiles’ shoulder with a reprimanding forefinger. “That was in case Deucalion came back, not so you could jerk Derek around! Use your powers for good, man!”

“This _is_ good,” Stiles insists. “Look, you go find out where the witch is and take care of her. I’ll take care of Derek and his memory loss.”

“Obviously, _you’re_ the best person to care for someone who’s lost their memory,” Scott says reflexively. And then, a moment later, he catches himself. “God, I’m sorry, Stiles. I didn’t mean…”

“It’s fine, I know you didn’t,” Stiles says.

It’s true, he probably isn’t the best, maybe not even _good_. But at least he knows what it’s like. He knows that after the months of hallucinations, second-guessing, panic and helplessness bright in her eyes... after all that, the day when his mom had forgotten she was sick had actually been one of the few good ones. For a while, they could pretend that everything was alright. Like a little gift, a reprieve before the illness took that bit more and she forgot his name.

If Derek doesn’t know right now what it’s like to lose a parent – to lose a whole _family_ – Stiles feels approximately no shame for not being the one to teach him.

 

**

“I know you’re lying,” Derek says by way of greeting when Stiles comes back. Because werewolf or not, Stiles has to admit he was less than convincing.

Stiles sighs. “Look, it’s not contagious exactly, but it’s not a good idea for you to see your family right now, okay? I can’t tell you why, but trust me. You’d know if I was trying to hurt you, right? With your werewolfy senses?” That seems to get him the buy-in he was looking for.

“But for _three whole days_?” Derek whines. “This is bullshit.” He glares, slightly nervously, at Deaton and Stiles – like someone’s going to take him to task for cussing. Then he crosses his arms and hunches back into the wall, into a full teenage sulk.

“It’s fine,” Stiles says, trying to remember that it isn’t exactly the Derek they know sulking at him right now. It’s baby-Derek. And Stiles is completely capable of manipulating him into not finding out about his dead family for at least three days. “You can come hang out at my place. It’ll be like a long slumber party!”

Derek is less than impressed. “I look like I’m too old for sleepovers.”

“Well, mentally you’re fifteen,” Stiles says, out of patience for this bizarre day. “Deal.” Is this how normal Derek feels when he’s interacting with them? Come to think of it, the age difference is just about swapped, give or take a couple years. _Stiles_ is the cool older kid now, rather than vice versa. That’s… a very strange thought.

“Look,” Stiles says, “I’ll just phone my dad, and let him know we’re coming.”

 

**

“He doesn’t remember? Any of it?” the Sheriff whispers to Stiles. They’re in the kitchen under the pretense of getting drinks.

Stile shakes his head. “Mentally fifteen. And shush, he’s still a werewolf, he can probably hear us.”

His father sends a long-suffering glance to the ceiling, like he’s asking God if his life could be any stranger than a magically de-aged werewolf eating steak and potatoes at his dinner table.

“Stiles, can you please pass the butter,” Derek says, as he apparently does have manners that his older self actively chooses not to use. “Thank you.”

“I really appreciate you letting me stay over, Mr. Stilinski,” he continues. “Can I help with the dishes?”

“Sure, kid,” the Sheriff says. Stiles thinks he can actually hear the gears grinding as his dad tries to reconcile this Derek - ‘kid’ - with the murder suspect he arrested a few years ago. _You and me both_ , he thinks.

 

**

“Here’s some blankets and pillows,” Stiles says, thrusting the pile of linens in to Derek’s arms.  “I’m sorry we don’t have a guest room, but I promise the couch is comfy.”

Derek grins. “It’s fine. Thanks again for letting me stay here.”

“Don’t mention it,” Stiles says. “Scott and I would never make you go stay in your loft alone at a time like this.”

“Woah, I have my own place?” Derek winces, laying a blanket over the couch. “Well, duh - I’m like thirty. But you know, I just keep thinking It’s so _cool_ I don’t have to go to school tomorrow.”

“Yeah, lucky you,” Stiles mutters, helping Derek tuck in the corners under the pillow. Not that Derek ever has to go to school, but he’s also never been excited about it before, which is making the whole thing seem weirdly unfair.

“So, you’ll be gone all day. Am I just going to hang out here?” Stiles is about to shrug and say he can do whatever he wants, but then he has a sudden moment of panic – what if Derek goes to the woods and sees the house? Or, what’s left of it? Not good. How can he keep him amused and _inside_?

“Hey, do you play video games?”

“Yeah,” Derek says, using the petulant ‘duh’ tone again that Stiles promises he will not let older-Derek live down like, ever.

“Check this out,” Stiles says, flipping on the tv and xbox. The Skyrim screen comes up, in all it’s glory.

 “Holy shit,” Derek says, eyes shining and glued to the screen like a kid on christmas.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, pleased with himself. “You can play any of my games tomorrow, until I get back. I’ve got this, some sports stuff, GTA.” 

“Stiles, this is amazing. You’re the best.” Derek says, dragging his eyes away from the glory that is Skyrim to give Stiles a heart-meltingly earnest look. It’s a really nice moment, until Stiles remembers that real Derek would probably be humiliated and angry that Stiles has seen him acting like this.

“Well, g’night,”  Stiles mumbles. It’s not like he’s doing anything wrong, really. Someone’s got to watch out for this guy.

“Night,” Derek answers, burrowing into the blankets on the couch with his ruffleable hair.

 

**

“Hey, Stiles?” Stiles looks up from his homework. Derek’s holding an old basketball that Stiles hadn’t even known they owned. “Your Dad found this for me in the garage. You wanna play?”

“Uh, sure?” Stiles hazards. He still has a chapter of Econ, and he’s never been great at sports.

“I’m like a foot taller, basically built,” Derek says with a pleased shrug. “I want to see what I can do.”

Stiles has to smile at that – it’s like Scott when he first got the bite. He doesn’t even point out that Derek can do that without him just fine. “Sure, let’s give it a try.”

There’s still an old hoop above the garage from back when Stiles’ dad played some casual neighborhood pick-up, and though it doesn’t even have a net Derek is acting like it’s the NBA finals, dribbling fast and low, spinning away from imaginary defenders, leaping up to actually dunk.

He’s palpably pleased with himself, so clearly enjoying his abilities, messing around and laughing in the evening light. “Catch,” he says, throwing Stiles the ball. Stiles throws it back, can’t help comparing his wimpy toss with Derek’s near-professional pass. Not that Derek seems to care; it’s fun, and easy, and Stiles realizes he’s actually enjoying himself. Even though he’s just getting in the way of the one-man basketball star show, bouncing shot after shot off the rim.

There’s no reason why Derek should try to include Stiles, really. But he is, maybe just to be nice. Which is _so_ not their Derek. Or isn’t it? Stiles wonders suddenly. He can actually be pretty patient with Stiles’ runaway trains of thought and overzealous plans, has been known take his ideas seriously. That’s how they tracked the witch to her lair, right? Under all the gruffness, this kid is still there.

Suddenly, Stiles is intensely angry. That the trajectory from this Derek to the one he knows is so crooked he can barely trace it. That the years Derek’s missing are unrelentingly shitty ones. That there’s nothing Stiles can even do about it now. Time has already turned this excitable, fun-loving teenager into, well, Derek. It’s unfair is what it is; it’s a fucking sin.

“Are we close friends?” Derek asks, out of the blue. “I mean, you’re letting me live with you, but far as I know we’ve never even met.”

“Well, we totally have. Like, you, me and Scott? Practically brothers,” Stiles lies. “You teach - taught him how to be a werewolf, and he still comes to you when he doesn’t know something. And you and I totally have each other’s backs, no questions asked.” It’s easy to describe the friendship he’d like them to have – because at this point, what’s one more lie?

“We’re each other’s go-to people when something supernatural is going down,” he continues. “You’ve saved my life more than once, and we make each other laugh.” That one is true – he’s seen Derek trying not to smirk at his jokes, and he totally snickers at Derek’s dry digs at Peter.

Derek looks like he’s not quite buying it, though. “So, we’re not like, morethanfriends?”

“Wait, what? No!” Stiles undermines his case by blushing furiously. Where the hell had that come from? Sure he’s had some… moments… thinking about Derek’s biceps, but that’s personal. Nothing about them has ever shouted romance. Or whispered it. Or looked in romance’s direction.

“Oh, okay, not to be weird!” Derek backpedals. “You were just being kind of shifty talking about how close we are, and I thought you were maybe hiding something because of how I’m mentally fifteen? And you’re really good-looking, and you smell like maybe... anyways, sorry.”

“I smell like what?” Stiles says, horrified and intrigued.

“I dunno,” Derek squirms, eyes downcast at the ball he’s lazily dribbling. “Affection?”

Better than smelling like wet dreams and hormones, Stiles supposes. But also harder to explain away, or get out of his head that night as he tries to sleep.

 

**

“Hey buddy, up and at ‘em!”

“Go away.” Derek moans from the cocoon of blankets on the couch. “It’s too early for a weekend!” 

“It’s like eleven thirty,” Stiles chastises. “I told you to go to sleep when we finished basketball, but did you? No. Did you stay up until two in the morning playing more Skyrim?”

“No,” a guilty voice protests from deep in the blankets.

“There’s ice cream in it for you if we get out the door before noon.”

Derek is out of bed like a shot, into the bathroom for a shower so fast he forgets that he doesn’t have a change of clothes, and has to call for Stiles to come bring him some loaners.

 

** 

They make it to the icecream truck that sets up shop near the neighborhood park, and Stiles pays for both of them, over Derek’s protests, because a fifteen-year-old should really not be making financial decisions for his twenty-something alterego. Yes, it’s just a few dollars. But it’s the principle of the thing.

Stiles gets mint chocolate chip, and Derek strawberry, and they sit on a nearby half-wall to eat. Stiles just wants this to be a really nice couple days, he realizes, for Derek’s sake. This one or the old one, harder to say. For both of them, he guesses.

Derek keeps up a running commentary about his prowess as a dragonslayer, and Stiles mostly just has to ‘uh-huh’ in the right places. The amnesia spell seems to be working like a happiness spell, which Stiles tries not to think too hard about.

The other thing Stiles tries not to think about: How will they come back? Chronologically, maybe. Or all at once? And of course, there’s the slowly dawning understanding that it’s not like Derek’s amnesia is retrograde - these days aren’t going away. Considering how open Derek’s been, for one, and for two how open Stiles has been back, he’s not really sure how worried that should make him.

Stiles licks his spoon and watches Derek eat. Is it taking advantage, to buddy up to Derek with lies about how chummy they are in the future? And even if it’s just pathetic, not wrong, how is Derek going to see it when he’s his normal self? Would Stiles want to have this forgotten, even if he could? They’re at around thirty hours, give or take, and Deaton said to expect about three days, so Stiles puts it out of his mind.

“Good?” Stiles asks around a mouthful of melting ice cream, trying not to dribble.

“The best!” Derek announces. “You know, Laura loved gelato, she said it was the one thing New York had on San Francisco, before...” and he just cuts off with this sharp exhalation, like he’s just taken a hit to the gut. His ice cream tips off the edge of the wall.

_Not yet_ , Stiles thinks, _we still have a whole day_. But Derek is still staring straight ahead as he grips the corner of the wall they’re sitting on, his ice-cream spilled and forgotten on the grass. It looks like the answer to Stiles’ question is ‘all at once.’

Stiles reaches out instinctively, covering Derek’s white knuckles, holding tight with the hope that it helps, in some small way. They just sit like that, in silence, and Stiles reads the memories rolling in like storm clouds through the muscles in Derek’s face.

“Thank you,” Derek says, finally, blinking his expression back under control. Stiles moves his hand away – it’s crazy how you can actually hear the change in Derek’s voice, the weight of everything that just came back. “Just… for not saying anything.” 

“No problem,” Stiles says back.

And then Derek stands up without even looking at Stiles, shoulders squared like that’s that and they’re done. Like _not saying anything_ is the best he expects from anyone. Sure, he’s just re-experienced his family’s death, but he’s fucking Derek Hale, so he’s going to shove all of that hurt back down and go play the stoic alone in that stupidly huge, empty loft. And Stiles just can’t.

“Hey - C’mere,” he says, grabbing Derek into a tight hug.

For a second he thinks it’s not working, that Derek’s going to pull away and growl at him or be sarcastic. But instead two strong arms wrap around him, and Derek shudders a deep sob into the embrace.

“Hey, it’ll be alright, you’re okay,” Stiles murmurs, guiding Derek back to the half wall to sit down before he collapses – he’s sobbing that hard. He brings one of his hands up to Derek’s head, stroking his hair like he would with a child. “I know,” he whispers, because he does.

After a few minutes, Derek’s back stops heaving quite so unevenly, sobs subsiding into deep, ragged breaths. Stiles pulls back so they’re face to face. Somehow it’s more intimate than the hug – he realizes that he’s standing between Derek’s legs, way too close, and tries to put that fact out of his head.

“Better?” he asks, gently.

“I just want to go _back_ ,” Derek answers, voice husky and thick with tears. “Everything is ruined, now--”

It’s raw and painful, and open in a way Stiles was sure wouldn’t happen between them after the memories came back. He just wants to do something, anything, to distract Derek from the bad parts. To turn this around. He’d like to think that some part of his mind was remembering how Lydia had calmed him down during his panic attack last fall, but honestly he’s not sure. He does know that somehow ‘distract Derek’ becomes ‘kiss Derek,’ and that their mouths find each other like a compass to due north.

“There are good things, too,” Stiles says afterward, their noses bumping together. He still has a hand on Derek’s cheek, running a thumb over his cheekbone. Like if they stay this close, it’s okay, but the second he lets go the fairy spell is broken and they’ll snap back to the mostly-friends dance they’ve been doing for the past two years.

Derek stares back, defenses still cracked open, trying to scan Stiles’ face for a joke, or take-back or something. Stiles kisses him again, just a little peck on his top lip. “I promise it gets better.”

 

 


End file.
